


Only When I Lose Myself

by wictorious



Category: Left 4 Dead (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Study, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:27:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27160451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wictorious/pseuds/wictorious
Summary: A what-if scenario where after The Parish (chronologically after all the other L4D2 campaigns), Nick and Rochelle are the only carriers in the group and are separated and put in quarantine below the decks of their rescue ship. Do they stay put or will something happen to set them on another crazy journey? Some canon-divergence and some liberties taken with the game material. Mostly just an excuse to write a fic about my two favorite characters and what would happen if they get some time together.Whump and romance planned for the future.
Relationships: Nick/Rochelle (Left 4 Dead)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Only When I Lose Myself

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what I want this fic or where I want it to go for now so bear with me and my crazy writing. <3

“What do you mean I'm a carrier?!”

The medical officer wearing protective gear and a respirator stayed calm as Nick angrily processed the diagnosis. _Of course I'm a carrier_ , he thought. He'd been covered in all kinds of unsanitary and bio-hazardous waste for a few weeks without time for a proper bath or shower. Even if he'd taken care not to let one of the mealy-mouthed zombie bastards take a chomp out of him, he hadn't even stopped to think that it was more than just a blood-borne sickness. Still, it didn't feel fair that he'd just fought tooth and nail and nearly died several times just to be told he wasn't out of the frying pan yet.

“We're not sure how contagious carriers are in this stage, nor are we sure there's a way to cure the disease,” the medical officer finally replied, Nick having calmed down a bit while stewing in his thoughts. “We haven't started doing proper testing and we have limited personnel on this craft. Because of this, it's likely that we may have to contain you in the brig until given further instructions on how to handle your case.”

“Oh great,” Nick's eyes rolled. “So you're arresting me? What the hell kind of rescue operation are you assholes running here?”

“If you'd rather stay behind, we can drop you off at the nearest dock and you can take your chances on your own.”

“Oh, could I? I didn't know I was being given options. So kind,” Nick huffed and then after a moment, he simmered down and slicked back his matted hair. His voice was less hostile, more worried. “What about the others? Are they carriers too?”

The medical officer didn't say anything, almost as if he was figuring out if he had clearance to say. He looked down at the chart he'd been carrying with one gloved hand and flipped through a few sheets, studying some of them for a minute or two.

“... One other carrier in the survivor group you were with.” The officer finally responded, his voice sounding strangely relieved. “They'll be contained along with you, if that's what you're worried about.”

 _Huh?_ Nick thought, wondering if that meant two of them hadn't been infected... or stranger-- _immune_. He ran through the potential outcomes, wondering who he'd get stuck with. He figured with his luck, the other carrier would be Ellis and he'd be doomed to listen to the hillbilly hee-haw and drone on about his friend “Keith” and every shitty daredevil stunt they'd ever pulled together. Nick was already dreading that outcome, wondering if he should even bother asking the medical officer to confirm his suspicions.

Then again, out of the other three survivors, Coach had been the oldest one. The big guy had whined about sore joints and knee pain and all kinds of assortments of body issues that came with spending most of his grown life bashing his body into other guys for sport and eating just about anything on the shitty part of the food pyramid. Maybe his immune system was also compromised and he'd become a carrier as well. At least he'd make for an alright conversational partner, albeit, one that might make Nick hungrier with all his vivid descriptions of junk food and snacks.

The one he least suspected was Rochelle. Ro had seemed the healthiest of them all. She'd talked about doing yoga and eating vegetarian for a few years and hadn't had any sort of physical condition. She'd claimed to have had every sort of inoculation known to man as a kid (Ellis had expressed a hatred of needles when they'd found an adrenaline shot and Ro had responded about her early tackling of that fear). Plus, the chances that he'd get someone as normal and easy to be around as her, stuck in quarantine, just didn't seem like it was in the books for a shithead like him.

He also worried that whoever he was partnered with would end up learning more about him than he wanted them to know. That also might mean losing the only people he had left and as reluctant as he had once been to make friends in the old world, it meant all the difference between life and death during a zombie outbreak.

Like ripping a band-aid off of a day old wound, Nick got around to asking who he'd be stuck with.

“The woman,” the medical officer replied.

///

_It was surreal being in the giant chopper as it sped away from the bridge's destruction and Rochelle had wished her camera, let alone her job, was still around for her to get some footage to sell one hell of a blockbuster movie story to the news station. They hadn't even waited for the rumbling to stop when the four of them all collapsed to the floor of the chopper's cargo bay and started laughing and congratulating each other._

“ _Holy shit! Did y'all see that? I think that was almost as big as one of the Midnight Riders' shows! Think that was visible from space?” Ellis was far more excited about the destruction but the others simply chuckled it off. “Hell! I think there was still one of them tanks on that bridge. Guess it's dead now.”_

“ _Ellis, anything that was still on that bridge is now ashes, rubble, or fish food.” Nick was slightly less goofy-faced as everyone else, but he was still in higher spirits than he'd been for the majority of their intense trek across Southern USA._

“ _Mmm-mmm, I could go for some fish and chips about now. Cajun seasoning on the fries, extra tartar sauce for the fish. I hope where ever we're going has some decent cooking.” Rochelle could tell that Coach was salivating at the idea of having three round meals again instead of the scarce scavenged scraps they'd been living off of for almost half of a month. “Or a buffet. Or a continental breakfast.”_

“ _Coach, I don't think the military's known for their cuisine but who knows,” Rochelle giggled, playfully teasing the older man she'd come to see as a father figure to the group. “Maybe they rescued some of those celebrity chefs.”_

“ _Oh, or what if they rescued Jimmy Gibbs Jr.?! Oh my god, I might finally get to shake his hand. I can tell him about us takin' his car, and drivin' his car, and uh... leavin' his car back at Whispering Oaks! Wait, do you think he'd be mad about that?” Ellis continued on and Rochelle couldn't help but crack the biggest smile to keep herself from saying anything to kill the boy's optimism._

_After all, they'd made it. They'd survived. They could breathe easy now._

///

Nick couldn't decide if he was glad to be out of the disgustingly ruined $3,000 suit or not since his replacement garments consisted of a bland sweatshirt and sweatpants, both a tombstone gray. He'd never been a fan of the way cheap fabric itched most of his body and felt too bulky and baggy, not breathing enough. Not to mention he was pretty sure someone else had worn the clothing at one point considering there was an odd stench to them.

Not that he had a wardrobe full of alternatives, he remarked, looking over the area he'd likely be calling home for at least a week or two. It was clear that the room was meant to be a holding space for disorderly officers, resembling a cell with its bare bunks, sink, and uncomfortably small toilet. Still, it was clean and didn't reek of zombie blood and guts or spoiled food or any of the other disturbing scents Nick had grown used to in the last few weeks of his life. It was strangely comforting.

The first thing he'd done after having a shower with a concoction of decontamination chemicals and water and being stiffly escorted to the room soon after was sit on a made up bunk, letting his tired bones have a long deserved rest. If there was one thing he had, it was going to be time. Time to stop and let his body heal and his muscles stop aching and whatever was left of his thirty-something year old frame feel something close to normal again.

 _As normal as someone harboring an infectious zombie disease_ , he reminded himself, intruding his attempt at relaxation and sending him on edge in an anxious fit. _What if there is no cure?_

If that was the case, would the virus get worse? Was it dormant within, harmless to himself but deadly to others? Or was there a risk that he'd trigger something, having it start a process, turning him into something monstrous like those mutated special infected they'd encountered? What kind of fucked up thing would he become? A smoker, his silver tongue being turned into a strangling appendage, wrapping itself around the necks of its prey, snuffing the life out of them as it dangled them high above the ground? Or would he become one of those chargers, his arms malformed and misshapen, ramming himself forward like a Mack Truck, knocking his victims to the ground and grabbing hold of what would be left at them to beat _down, down, down_ into a pulpy mess in a crater on the ground. He shivered at his overactive imagination, wishing the medical staff had given him some sort of drugs to put him to sleep or at least make him think he was feeling good.

He slunk down on to the bunk, settling his back onto the lumpy excuse for a mattress. He'd gotten used to sleeping on all sorts of surfaces lately, but he hadn't lost enough of his sense to think he was staying at the Ritz Carlton, sleeping on a California King. After a few moments of shifting and making the best of it, he laid one arm over his eyes to block out what light was danging overhead and he tried to clear his head and sleep.

///

Rochelle felt a bit vulnerable having her weapons, equipment, and even her _clothing_ taken away. She'd never been the kind of person to have any sort of fondness for firearms; quite the opposite really. But after figuring out pretty quick it was the only way to keep breathing and moving toward safety, she'd embraced the mechanics and the weight of firing guns. It'd made her feel safer having the burst-round rifle slung on her shoulder, reminding her that she wasn't completely defenseless. But now, she felt naked and wondered what she'd do if one of those things managed to sneak up on her and corner her. She didn't have the athleticism or brute force to take one down fast enough. She just had to hope that they'd be safe enough in the presence of the National Guard officers.

At least she hoped she was still worth protecting with the grim diagnosis given to her only an hour ago. Even if she was carrying whatever disease had wiped out so many innocent lives, she was still a human and still deserved to survive... right?

As the medical staff led her to the decks below, Rochelle replayed the first hours of the chaos and paranoia that had started her bizarre journey.

She'd been squeezed among crowds of panicked and frenzied survivors, cooped up into “ _The Vannah_ ” hotel, following the orders of CEDA officials equipped with various instruments and gear, trying to reign everyone in. Their words had seemed so certain back then and they'd given Rochelle and the rest of her team some information about the various types of “infected” that were being encountered and how to avoid the virus and a full-on pandemic.

She also remembered all too well rushing away from the infected victims of the masses that broke in so suddenly and being separated from the rest of her staff and then her sudden idea of retreating to the news van outside. She had only been able to lock herself inside as the screams and howls around her went on for an eternity. She'd never been religious but she'd hoped and prayed that her co-workers had managed to make it out, even though deep down she knew there was no way she'd ever see them again. Soon enough, survivors guilt set in.

After staying in the van for what seemed like hours, she'd decided to venture out, trying to gauge what had just happened and what she should do. She'd seen so much death; the inside lobby of the hotel had been a mausoleum. She'd seen one dead body before when she had first started working for the news station after a morbid cameraman had stolen some footage he wasn't supposed to, but it hadn't prepared her even the slightest for a mass murder site.

She'd almost died too, she strongly recalled, thinking back to the moment her luck changed. She'd been wandering the motel, looking for signs of her friends or anyone who'd made it and then one of those smokers had shown up, shooting its long tongue at her, catching her off guard and tightening its grip around her throat. She'd seen her life flash before her eyes and her nails had dug into the tongue, trying to find any ounce of grip to pull it off, to save herself as the air squeezed out of her body and the pressure of her blood began to make her head hazy...

_Bang._ A bullet whizzing through the air and ripping the tongue in half, releasing her from certain death. She'd collapsed to the ground, searching for the danger, wanting to know what had just happened and if she was safe. And then another bullet fired. And another. And before she could steady her breathing, she saw a man in a white suit, standing beside her.

“ _What the fuck is that?!”_ The man's voice was music to her ears after the miserable death rattles and cries of help and pain she'd heard until then.

That was how she met Nick, standing with an overly fancy silver-plated magnum handgun, its barrel smoking slightly less than the green-mist-shrouded corpse of the first “smoker” Rochelle had encountered, laying across the hall. Nick had looked like he'd just survived narrow death and bore cuts and scrapes on his face and chest. His navy blue dress shirt had been askew and Rochelle had taken note of the tuft of hair peeking up from under the collar of his shirt. His expensive white suit was also stained with blood. Under any other circumstance, he'd have looked extremely suspicious, throwing up a million red flags, but instead Rochelle had only felt relief that she wasn't alone.

It wasn't long before the two of them encountered Coach and Ellis in the halls of the soon burning hotel; the odd Southerner pair had met under similar circumstances (Ellis had been pounced on by a Hunter and Coach, being the selfless saint he was, had tackled the feral skinny thing into a tangled mess on the ground). The ragtag group had stumbled upon the last of the CEDA officials hoofing it to a stairwell in the distance, following them in the hopes they could finally escape their nightmare, only to make it to the roof and see them hightail it away in a giant chopper. They'd been left high and dry with only the clothes on their backs to keep them safe.

_Funny how things work out,_ she thought. She'd spent the next few hours trying to beat zombies away with a fire axe she'd stolen from one of the emergency boxes in the hotel halls, swinging the thing into any crazed person who came rushing at her. It'd been inefficient and had tired her out way faster than she'd been lead to believe it would from movies and television shows. Thankfully Ellis and Nick had firearms and Coach was pretty good at using whatever objects he could to beat down their attackers with brawn. When they reached the gun store, Rochelle was weary of switching to something more automatic.

She was worried she'd end up shooting one of the boys by mistake; she'd never been to a firing range and wasn't the kind of gal who liked frequenting arcades with the shooting games. She wasn't even good at playing darts, even when she was sober. But in the end, she knew if she didn't take something, she'd feel like dead weight. She didn't _want_ to be dead weight. And she definitely didn't want to be some sort of damsel-in-distress either. Apocalypse be damned if she was going to put feminism two steps back by having a bunch of men do all the work for her. Not to mention, she feared what it'd come to if they ever split up or even worse-- the others died. She'd have to pick one of the damn things up sooner or later if she was smart.

Ellis had suggested the burst-round rifle. She had wanted a shotgun, thinking power and simplicity, but he'd insisted that the rifle would be easier to handle and he even gave her a quick rundown on how to use it.  _Bless redneck southerners and their crazy NRA memberships_ , she'd thought.

There were a few times she hadn't been able to run and gun as easily as she'd wanted to. She'd had a few close shaves, nearly shooting Nick once or twice since he'd made a strange habit of standing at her side to cover her flank and catching her off guard when she was in fight or flight mode.

After the first few days, they'd made it to Whispering Oaks in the  _Jimmy Gibbs_ and that had been the first time she noticed she was getting the hang of things. Ellis had been messing around with a shooting range carnival game  _(“You can win a Gnome! Look at how cute this feller is!”)_ and just for the hell of things during the brief moment of respite they'd had, she'd joined him in trying to get a high score.

“ _Well goddamn, Annie Oakley! I think you're a better shot than Nick now! Not too long 'til you're better than me,”_ Ellis had cheered, whistling loudly at how Rochelle had blown the head clean off one of the evil little minion character cut-outs, sliding by. “ _He's right, little sister. You're kicking ass,_ ” Coach had chimed in. Nick hadn't said anything, but she had caught him smile a bit at the sentiments of the other two, even if he had strongly voiced his opinion on wasting ammo and time on a stupid “carny game.”

She'd felt proud and her optimism had skyrocketed through the roof. She found herself screwing up shots less and less and she'd been more daring about hitting moving targets while booking it down long stretches of grassy knolls or sugar mills or swamp town walkways, or even cobblestone N'awlins side streets.

But now... miles away from the memories of Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama or Georgia, the things she'd still had of her old life were gone. The last of her possessions; her favorite dangly gold bangles, her matching gold hoop earrings her friend Joanne had given her (which she hadn't even realized had made the whole damn trip), her hot-pink _Depeche Mode_ shirt from their 2005 tour, and the very first rifle Ellis had suggested to her that fateful day back in Savannah.

She had wanted to enjoy the shower she'd been allowed but instead of relaxing under a warm stream of steamy goodness, soaking away her aches and pains and lathering herself with any sort of good-scented herbal body wash and floral shampoos, she'd had to settle with a weak lukewarm spray that left her with a slight stinging sensation with the “chemical” mist they kept her standing in for a minute or two afterward.

Part of her wanted to let it all out and she wanted to scream and cry and curse her shitty outcome, just like a witch possessed. But she also realized that her situation was a mess and her options were limited and she might end up being separated from Ellis and Coach and Nick if she did or said the wrong thing. Plus, there was still the possibility that this was only temporary and she might be cured soon enough. She had to stay strong. They'd already made it so far and she knew this couldn't be it for her.

When she got to the door of the brig and the medical officers with the respirators and the gear that were escorting her unbolted the door and opened it for her to enter, she immediately saw the exhausted and familiar form passed out on one of the bunks within.

A small pang in her chest rose from the hollow feeling and she started to feel hope again.

///

“You know, you don't clean up too bad,” Rochelle's warm voice teased, stirring Nick from his light snooze. He raised his arm and lifted himself up from the bunk, his body suddenly feeling ten times heavier. Her outfit matched his, even in size, he remarked, noticing how the large, frumpy shirt and pants made her look even smaller than before. Her thick hair was let down and all of her jewelry was long gone, along with the grim and dirt. Few bruises and cuts still lingered on her face. She looked strangely... good.

“I could do with a new silk shirt and some pants that don't chafe the ever-loving piss out of my balls, but hey,” Nick jabbed back, shrugging on cue at his own quip. “Can't say I'm glad to see you're here too but...”

“Yeah,” she replied, sighing. “Kind of wish neither of us was here. Still, at least we're not alone.”

“Uh-huh,” Nick said, slinging an arm over his knee, sitting up on the bed. The room was quiet and eerie compared to all the safe houses they'd camped out in. Of course, once in a while, he could hear the metal of the ship creaking or echoing from parts unknown, but it was so inconsistent that it almost bothered him.

“So...” Rochelle broke the silence, settling down on the bunk on the other side of the room, crossing her legs and rubbing her aching feet for the first time in forever. “Carriers. I didn't even know that was a thing that could happen.”

“Go figure, huh?” Nick had a thought creep in, his mind angrily wishing in that moment that instead Ellis or Coach were in his place since he'd been the only one out of all of them constantly washing his hands when he could or worrying about germs and sanitizing whatever parts of his body he could to try to keep himself safe. But then he also realized Rochelle would still be here and he felt guilty and hated himself for thinking anyone should deserve this over him, especially someone like her.

“Apparently it's a genetic thing,” she continued, moving her massaging hands over to her other foot, relieving more tension. “The medics said normally we would've become one of those infected but instead it's just... there? But it can still change other people without the same kind of gene. Contact through blood or saliva...”

“Guess I can count on sneezing on those jerks if they forget to feed us in here.”

“Nick, this is serious,” Rochelle sternly reminded him. She rubbed a hand over the back of her neck and rolled it from side to side slowly, closing her eyes and trying to relax a bit. When she finished she glanced at him, her deep brown eyes looking right into his hazel ones. “I think they really do want to help us. They just... can't right now. Obviously they can't risk infection, especially with things being as messed up as they are. At least they rescued us.”

“Is this really a rescue? Because the way I see it, I'm locked away at the bottom of a goddamn boat wearing the kind of outfits 70-year-old joggers find to be the epitome of fashion, waiting for what I assume will be gruel for dinner. I think I liked it better when I was using cardboard for a bed.”

“At least you won't wake up with spiders in your hair again,” she reminded him, causing him to shoot her an annoyed look in return. Nick's shoulders tensed at the thought.

It'd been back in the swamps and bayous of Louisiana, when they'd had no choice but to camp out in a shitty little shack on stilts, surrounded by the filthiest of filthy furnishings and bare essentials. The combination living-dining-bathing room was disgusting enough of a concept to Nick, let alone the rusted stove that looked like the only meals it could serve were all heaping varieties of Tetanus and Hepatitis. He'd taken first watch with Coach, wanting to stave off sleeping on the floor of that shithole as long as he could, letting Rochelle and Ellis rest first. When it had been his turn to settle down and catch some sleep, he'd been extremely reluctant to let anything in the house touch him and could only compromise with huddling down with his back against the wall so he wouldn't fall over after shutting his eyes.

He'd soon enough fallen over after shutting his eyes (Ellis had vividly told him that detail over and over, reminding him just _how funny it was, how ironic_ ) and in his slumber curled up beneath a spider's web which just so happened to have a healthy amount of spider eggs that had the misfortune of hatching right above his head. What had ensued shortly after was only described by Rochelle as Nick rising from his sleep like a man possessed, slapping his head, combing his hands wildly through his hair, claiming it was on fire and he was being attacked. He hadn't ever truly gotten rest after that, even when they were back to more urban areas that promised less bug infestations.

“I'm willing to bet there's still a spider or two left on this ship,” he shivered, looking over his shoulder to check the corners of the room for any visible arachnid residents. “Fuck those shitty swamp shacks. No sane person could ever stay an entire day in one of those things.”

“Amen,” Rochelle agreed, remembering the humid air and the buzzing of mosquitoes that had become a nuisance, along with the garden variety of infected assholes trying to beat them to death. The urge to scratch an unbearable itch while trying to shoot a tank was the worst kind of hell she thought she could experience.

Rochelle laid down, wrapping the single blanket on the mattress around her, breathing in slowly and smoothly. She settled her head into the pillow, letting the lumpy stuffing inside it cradle her gently. If she kept her eyes closed, she could almost imagine she was back home in Cleveland, laying in her own queen-size bed.

She imagined the white Ikea bedstand she'd spent forever trying to put together one Saturday afternoon with the cute lamp she'd found at a thrift store for five dollars sitting on top of it. She saw her makeshift vanity that had once been a drawing table with all her jewelry cases and make up laid out in little piles that only made sense to her across the room, next to her closet with the full body mirror on the door. She saw the various framed pictures of her friends and family, the pop artwork she'd hung over the headboard of her bed, the candles on the chest of drawers that she remembered smelled like lavender and jasmine when she lit them. She pictured the patterned curtains hanging over blinds and even the depressing view of the brick wall next door when she peered out through the window pane, reminding her that she was in the city.

“You... uh... doing okay?” Nick interrupted her fantasy, his figure now showing up in her imagination, standing next to her bed. She opened her eyes and his actual position wasn't far off from where he'd been placed in her head. He stood with his arms crossed, looking down at her like he'd just been told to take care of a baby cat. Put out, but also strangely ready to do whatever it took to keep her happy. He'd been like that since the first day they'd met.

“I was just about to have a nice dream,” she mumbled, rolling away from Nick and instead facing the metal paneling beside her bunk. Her eyes traced the rivets in the wall, trying to lull herself back into a state of sleep, and suddenly a very strange realization hit her.

_Nick actually liked talking with her._

He actually wanted to talk to her. He was trying to strike up conversation. She'd gotten so used to him shutting down Ellis and Coach and just being a general asshole to everyone that she had learned how to keep her interactions brief with him. She'd given him a piece of her mind a few times but overall, she'd tried to be civil with him and helpful but not cross him or upset him when she could afford to. He was crass, unpleasant, sarcastic about almost everything, whiny, and yet... something about him was also protective and courageous and even funny.

_No way._ Rochelle was not going to admit that maybe she kind of liked Nick too. So maybe she did. She'd had worse taste in men before. Not to mention it didn't seem like she was ever going to cross paths with that biker guy ever again.

What had his name been? She'd long since forgotten. It seemed like years ago already. Frank? Ferris? Instead of getting sleepier, she was screwing up her brain cells, trying to dig up the biker guy's name, feeling like it was on the tip of her tongue. She still remembered what he looked like, his full sleeve tattoos and buzzed head, complete with the trashiest and yet hottest goatee she'd seen, at least south of the border.

“Hey, Nick,” she spoke up impulsively, wondering if he was still standing there, waiting for some sort of retort or reply to his earlier comment. “Do you remember the names of those other survivors we encountered? The ones back in Georgia?”

“You mean that greasy big ape and his pals?” Nick paused for a moment. “I remember the girl's name. Zoey. Ellis wouldn't shut up about it for at least an entire day after that.”

“Poor Ellis,” Rochelle sighed, wondering if the poor kid would ever get another chance at love again. “Maybe they made it to safety too.”

“Or maybe they're carriers like us.” Rochelle heard Nick's voice from further away this time, the sound of springs creaking coming soon after. He was likely sitting back down on his bunk again. “Why? What, do you miss your boyfriend?”

_Francis_ . That was his name. She remembered now. She ignored Nick's thinly-veiled jealousy and went back to looking at the rivets in the wall. One. Two. Three. A minute passed. And then five. Rochelle got the feeling Nick had taken the hint and she could almost imagine the disappointment on his face at having failed to stoke any sort of fire. Just as Ro was finally starting to drift off again, her eyes closing voluntarily and body feeling a million years away, she heard Nick start to mumble.

“You know, I saw their friend,” he quietly said, sounding a bit more somber this time, a little more sensitive. “When we were trying to restart the generator, in the building nearby...”

Rochelle waited for him to keep going, but she also didn't know if he would unless she turned around to show him that she was listening. Finally, she gave in and rolled over, looking over to see that Nick was also now laying down in bed, training his eyes up at the bunk above his. He looked over for a brief moment, his features softened more than usual, as if he was too tired to keep up his tough-guy facade. Then he continued.

“The guy had been completely beaten to death. Looked like he'd been run over with steam rollers and monster trucks. Don't know what happened to him but he was mangled to hell, no coming back from that. He was old, wearing some kind of military jacket. Not stolen glory like those Southern gun nuts wear. Maybe Vietnam era.” Nick let out a somber chuckle of disbelief. “Poor bastard still had a cigarette in his mouth.”

“Well, shit,” Rochelle said, barely above a whisper. “Zoey said something about losing one of their own but I didn't realize the guy was right next to us the whole time.”

“I didn't say anything because to be honest,” Nick said, letting out a long breath, “it scared the shit out of me. No one should have to go out like that... alone.”

Nick didn't say much after that. A chill had run down Rochelle's spine after he'd said those last few words, feeling them deep within her soul. It brought back that initial fear she'd had during the first few hours of the outbreak, back before she'd run into the others. She eventually closed her eyes again, trying to let the days events slip away and her mind clear. She'd have plenty of time to tackle those demons later. For now, she needed rest.

But that one dreadful thought was stuck at the back of her mind, burying itself deeper and deeper into everything she tried to think instead.

_Will I die alone in the end?_


End file.
